


Everything You Wanted For Me

by lookingforatardis



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, for OBVIOUS reasons regarding AH
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22312078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: Part three of the Hammer Lodge trilogy*abandoned fic*
Comments: 137
Kudos: 186





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE note this fic has been abandoned in light of the allegations against AH regarding drug use, sexual misconduct, and frankly a horrifying number of affairs. I stand with victims and always will. Writing him at this point feels gross to me. this remains up (as of feb 2021) when the other two parts of this series do not, simply because ive had requests to update here if/when the adaptation of this series is complete.

There’s still a chill in the air despite spring being in full swing in the city. You’d never know by the state of undress Timmy insists on, despite his tendency to get cold quickly. I think he does it to taunt me, in fact I’m sure of it. "What time does your brother get in?" I glance up to meet his eyes, momentarily distracted at his boxers hanging low. "Armie?" I can hear the smirk in his voice as he rests a hand on his hip.

"Soon. He's insisting he just grab a cab and meet us at home though."

"Yours?"

"Yeah, mine," I clarify. I gave him a key nearly two months ago and it had quickly resulted in both places being _ours_ , so I forget that sometimes we still need to specify. He nods and grabs the mugs of coffee he's prepared and walks over to me with a sleepy smile. "Thank you." He bites his lip and I know it's because I used the voice he likes; he told me a few weeks ago that sometimes my voice gets gentle and sounds like I'm saying I love him even if I'm not. It took a while to figure out what exactly he meant, but sometimes I'd say things and he would immediately bite his lip, shy away with a hidden smile, or his body would sway towards mine like a magnet and I assumed that was as good of an indicator as I'd get. He had one too; his voice would turn soft around the edges and his _eyes—_ they would blink slowly and his words could come out a little breathless. I didn't want him to know he did it, I wanted to keep hearing it when he didn't realize he used it. Granted, he sees straight through me and probably already knows and doesn't care. He's never shied away from letting me see his love.

We drink our coffee and he drapes a leg over mine, foot tapping against my shin as the caffeine kicks in. "Can I wear that sweater?" he asks, head tilting up to look at me. I drop my phone into my lap, the news not as important as his eyes under those lashes.

"Which one? Stripes?" He nods and grins with his chin pushed out, eyes on my lips. I kiss him before answering; he knows I can't resist him like this. "Yeah you can wear it."

"Thank you," he draws out, nips his lips down my jaw and chest to reach my heart with a loud kiss over the beat.

"He knows it's mine, you know. He's seen me wear that sweater a dozen times."

"Oh my god you mean when I see your brother he might think we share clothes? Well maybe I'll just wear my own, we wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impression, now would we? Shit, do you think we should tell him you're staying in a hotel tonight?"

"Shut up," I laugh, nudging him. "I'm just saying it's like—"

"He _knows_ , Armie." I look at him, heart stopping because he has a look in his eyes I don't see often. "You don’t have to hide from him," he uses that voice. "It's okay to let him know this is serious. He knows we live together, it won't surprise him if I wear your stuff. He's not going to care. _I'm_ not going to care. I like wearing your stuff, it makes me happy. Is that okay?" I nod and swallow hard, his hand soothing over my skin until I can meet his eyes. I still don’t really understand how he knows before I do when my anxiety is kicking in, but he's unbelievably good at catching it.

The thing is, even if everything about Timmy feels right, it is still so unlike anything I've ever had before that it sneaks up on me sometimes just _how much_ it means to be with him. It hadn't been that long technically, just a few months since he sent that email, but we'd already started planning vacations for next year and talked about doing something for the anniversary of the day we met. He had even started pulling up apartments that were in neighborhoods we could agree on and had been wondering out loud some nights how we would decorate a place together. I had never been this serious with anyone and I know I never will be with anyone else, but sometimes the gravity of that is a lot. And he knows, he just fucking knows and always catches me before I realize I'm about to fall.

I wear one of his hoodies that is so baggy on him that it fits me perfectly, and he wears my boxers because he needs to do laundry and my stuff at his place is clean. He holds my hand and puts his arms around my waist on the subway to my place. I took today off work to see Vik and Timmy's play had just wrapped its initial run, so for the first time we have the whole weekend to ourselves without timelines and schedules to work around. He had taken advantage of it already—last night when I got home from work, he was in one of my shirts. _Just_ one of my shirts. He greeted me at the door as if that was totally normal and put my hands on him before even saying hello. On days we both had work, we were always too tired to do a lot unless we were desperate for each other (which admittedly was often). But a Thursday night with nothing else going on? He had decided he wanted to be completely exhausted today I guess, because he had me on my knees with my work bag still slung over my shoulder until he managed to shove it off. He let me fuck him while we waited for dinner to be ready and then again in the shower—he had fallen asleep on me before I could even cover us with the blankets and I honestly don't know the last time he slept without moving an inch in the night.

I forget sometimes that he needs me just as much as I need him, in every way. It had been days since we'd been intimate and I hadn't even realized until he was coming for the second time and telling me he missed me. Timmy told me he understood work was stressful and didn’t want to make me feel bad for feeling tired every night, but he used _that voice_ when I told him I would make more of an effort to leave work on time to be with him. There was still a learning curve with him, but he spoke his mind and I love him too much to be stubborn about anything with him. And besides, arguing about sex seems so stupid when we both want it as much as each other anyway.

He goes to my closet when we get home to my apartment and changes into my striped sweater before grabbing a few more things to bring back to his place. Vik was staying here this weekend because he was bringing his girlfriend Amy to the city too, and Timmy and I thought it was ridiculous for them to spend money on a hotel when we had _two_ apartments. The backpack full of clothes and condoms ("I intend on needing more," he said when I raised an eyebrow. He smiled when I laughed and threw some more lube into the bag as well) gets discarded by the door so we'll remember it before leaving, and then we start some brunch to be ready when they get here. He doesn't help much, mostly just distracts me, but I love it and he knows it. He'll stir batter or cut strawberries but really his job is to hang on me and kiss me and make it hard to get anything done and I wouldn't change that for anything in the world.

There's a knock at the door when I've got him cornered in the kitchen, hands on his sides and his laugh everywhere as he fights my fingers tickling him. His eyes light up and I lean in to kiss him because the fact that he's so fucking excited to see Vik and meet his girlfriend makes me warm.

I answer the door and immediately the comfort of seeing my little brother washes over me. He grins and pulls me into a tight hug, his hand hitting between my shoulder blades twice before standing back. "God it's good to see you," he says, and I laugh with a nod before turning to hug Amy.

"Here, come in. Timmy—" I turn around and see him standing back a few feet with a shy smile and want to fall at his feet because Lord, how on earth could someone be so confident and bold in his love for me, then flip a switch and get shy and nervous? I reach for him and he walks to me willingly, lip between his teeth.

"Wow. I honestly wasn't sure I'd see you again. It's good to see you, Timmy," Vik says, and I can tell he means it because his voice is suddenly rough and Timmy steps forward to hug him. It's so tender that tears form in my eyes, and I can see Vik saying something to Timmy but I can't hear it. When they separate, Timmy is on the verge of tears; he leans back against me and I know him well enough to know he needs me to ground him, so I let my hand fall on his shoulder and rub the muscle there as Vik introduces him to Amy. It's when she wraps her arms around him that I see it.

"Holy shit," I breathe, eyes wide when I look at Vik. He's blushing and watches me carefully. "Are you—?" Timmy looks back at me and then at Vik, then Amy, his eyes dropping with a gasp. The ice must be broken because he doesn’t hesitate to reach for her hand.

"We wanted to tell you in person," Vik says.

"It happened Tuesday," Amy says and I can hear the wistful memory in her voice.

"It's gorgeous—Armie, look at this ring," Timmy says, his free hand reaching to pull me closer.

"I— _wow_. Viktor, congratulations," I say, emotional suddenly at the way he's watching Amy beam at Timmy. I pull him into another hug that lasts a bit longer. "Congratulations," I smile, laughing a bit as I hug Amy and look at the ring.

"This is amazing," Timmy smiles, and I want to kiss him because he _loves_ love so much; it's incredibly endearing. I pull him against my chest and rest my chin on his shoulder while Vik tells me that he spent three months looking for the perfect ring. Timmy traces his fingers over my arm while he talks.

They tell us how it happened over brunch and Timmy's ankle hooks around mine, completely engrossed in the story. "Do you have a date yet?" Timmy asks. I see them hesitate and am about to tell them it's okay if they don't before they speak up, Vik stuttering before Amy fills us in.

"Uh a date, well—"

"We were thinking winter. You know, we met in a snowstorm so," Amy smiles, looking back at Vik.

"I keep telling her it's testing fate to do it when it could snow us all in again," he rolls his eyes. It's nice to see him like this, so carelessly happy with her. I don't get to see them nearly as much as I'd like.

"That's so romantic though," Timmy offers. His eyes are soft when I look over at him; he's got that look on his face that tells me he's already racing ahead to some other place in the conversation but is letting them pace it.

"Well," Vik shrugs, hiding his grin.

"And of course, you know we have to—"

" _Amy_ ," Vik stops her with a set jaw.

Something's happened. I look between them and see her swallow, his eyes drop.

"What is it?" I ask, heart thumping in my chest. Timmy's hand presses onto the top of my thigh as if he knows something's coming. I swear to god he senses my stress levels before I do.

"Well actually… we wanted to talk to you about something."

"What?" Timmy's hand squeezes my thigh, his ankle pulling my leg closer to him. He smiles softly when I look over at him and I feel my pulse slow a bit.

"I want you to be my best man," Vik says.

"Of course—"

"But we want to get married where we met." My heart stops. "And I know that might be a lot to ask because obviously we would want you to bring Timmy… but we've talked about it a lot and—"

"No, no of course," I nod, swallowing hard. "That's where you fell in love, you should get married there if you want."

"You _know_ I wouldn't ask you to do this if—"

"Vik, it's your wedding. I'll be there."

"You'll have to see them regardless, you know? It's just—"

"Vik. It's okay."

"Where did you meet…" Timmy asks, and I have to cover his hand with my own.

Vik looks at him for a moment before looking back at me. "Hammer Lodge."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall... i didnt mean for this to take a month and really i am sorry for that. I started writing this other fic and it has genuinely taken over my life and i havent been able to focus on any other fic... but that does NOT mean this fic wont happen. i think now im finding some balance with the other fic and this one
> 
> If you DIDN'T come here from tumblr, please go look at [ this moodboard my friend made for this fic!! It's gorgeous and warm and I love it. Happy reading!](https://66.media.tumblr.com/cb5058219158178765958918bef77719/bfba755153c7fde9-cc/s1280x1920/11b971a7c8fc71ae600a21f42ac1278c49927847.png)

Timmy doesn't put his clothes in the hamper. He also doesn't wash his dishes immediately, and he more often than not leaves a half empty glass of water on the coffee table when he goes to work, never on a coaster.

He uses my body wash and bought the coffee I like for his apartment, but insists I buy his coffee creamer ("You just buy milk, Armie. That's _not_ going to make it creamy!") for my place as well as his. He changed the sheets on his bed to the same kind I use at mine so it feels the same in both our homes, and leaves hearts on the mirror of the bathroom when I'm in the shower. And, he kisses me every time he sees me, no matter where we are. Every time. 

It's comfortable, the rhythm we fall into. And we do fall into a rhythm far faster than I ever have with another person, but it's Timmy, and I guess that's just how we've always been; I find it oddly comforting to think that perhaps this is how we always _will_ be as well. The familiarity to this has always been a massive comfort to the both of us.

Maybe that's why it feels so odd that he isn't here right now. I check my phone to see if he went to his apartment and I got my days messed up, if really _I'm_ the reason he isn't in my arms right now. He's busy, though—I have to remind myself that just because his play is over, doesn't mean he's suddenly got nothing going on. The beer I've been nursing since getting home tastes bitter as it turns room temperature.

Suddenly, he shuffles into the apartment with a bag on each arm, phone cradled between his shoulder and cheek, eyes bright when he sees me on the couch and I feel myself sigh. "No Mom, I told you we'd be there this weekend," he says, rolling his eyes as he puts bags on the counter. He looks over at me and I almost laugh at his expression. I go to him because I know that look, that _how have I been here for this long and you haven't kissed me yet_ look, and I'll be damned if I deny him this. I kiss his cheek as he lifts his phone to his hand from his shoulder, but he's too fast and a kiss on the cheek is apparently not enough; our lips are pressed together before I can blink, and then he's gone with a content hum, talking to his mom about dinner plans for later in the week. He moves around the space like he chose it out himself, so comfortable as he puts groceries away and laughs at something she's said. His fingers are in his hair and he's trying to shuffle out of his hoodie without dropping the phone, and I could help but it's cute to watch him tuck his arms in, watch his hair get all messy when he drags it over his head. "Oh he's fine. Just staring at me being extremely unhelpful is all," Timmy says suddenly, snapping me out of a trance I hadn't realized I was in as his socked feet bring him closer to me. "Yes, he'll be at dinner," he says with a smile, hand reaching up to push into my hair. "Well he loves you guys, of course he'll be there." His shirt is one of mine today, and the handfuls I take at his back are soft and familiar. "Mom, I think I should go. I can call you tomorrow, okay?" He laughs and turns pink around the edges, and I know I can just wait until he hangs up, but the flush is so adorable that I can't stop myself from brushing my lips over the color on his cheeks. "Okay, love you too." He connects our lips when he's hung up and everything feels warmer, his hands on my face as he lets me linger against his neck. "Hey baby," he smiles, fingers grazing my skin.

"Hey." His eyes close briefly and I know it must be my voice causing the reaction because he leans in and breathes against my neck. We stand there, swaying slightly, for what feels like seconds, yet hours.

"What happened?"

I lift my head to see if I can decipher the question with clues in his eyes, but I can't seem to make sense of it. _Nothing_ happened, what does he mean? He shifts on his feet, his legs bumping mine.

"You're clinging," he whispers, a finger tracing over my jaw before dropping to tap lightly at my arms still clutched around him. "I'm not complaining, but," he shrugs, nips at my chin. The tenderness in the usually aggressive action makes it hard to look at him, so I duck back into the safety of his embrace. "Armie," he sighs. But his hands are running over my back in that way he knows calms me down, so he must really think I'm stressing out. Tension seeps out of my shoulders and I realize with a bit of a shock that maybe I _am_. I think about it, try to figure out at what point I felt like I needed him in my arms so badly. What happened—I feel embarrassed. His hands are warm and accepting on my back and I know he would never scoff at me for this, but I'm still getting used to having him everywhere and _not_ having him everywhere feels so odd that it's as if a piece of me goes when he does every day.

"Just missed you," I tell him. "You weren't here when I got home."

"I told you I had a meeting with my agent," he says, scratching my scalp. "I'm sorry, I thought it would be okay."

"It _is_ okay," I nod. He's quiet for a long time, the both of us just standing in the middle of the kitchen. His breathing matches mine after a minute and I can feel the second we both melt into each other; his arms feel heavier on me, but he also seems to be the one holding me up. I tell him I love him because something around us feels temporary and I don't like it. His hands are cold when they sneak under my shirt, but the chill reminds me we are both awake and together, so it's welcome.

It still happens, the dreams. Sometimes it's me, but sometimes it's him-- it had become pretty normal for one of us to seek the other out in the middle of the night, faces pressed against chests and hands pulling each other closer to make it feel real again, to forget the leaving that happened in our past. I don't know why it happens, it didn't happen at all for those first couple of nights. He thinks that we've gotten so used to missing each other that our bodies don't know how to react to being with each other so constantly. I think he's probably right, because the dreams started (the _original_ dreams, the ones when he would be in my bed with me, his eyes bright and focused and in love) when he left me for good, when I was so used to turning to him and suddenly couldn't that I didn't understand how to process the loss. Now, the dreams are devoid of his smiles and embrace.

"What's bothering you?" he asks me with his lips close to my skin. "Did you _just_ miss me?"

"I think so," because I can't lie to him. "I forgot you wouldn't be here."

"How's the anxiety?"

"S'okay," I nod, because he knows everything about me, even the things he doesn't know he seems to know, like how thinking he would be somewhere and not seeing him might send me into a state of mind neither of us is ready to face.

"Baby call me if you want to talk to me," he tells me, voice firm. "You know we're both in this."

"I know, it's just stupid. I should be able to go a day without you."

"Maybe," he shrugs, pulling back to smile at me. "It's still new. It's okay to want to be together. Especially after everything. Remember what I told you?"

"We're healing," I can't help the slight quirk of my lips at the memory of him telling me I needed to accept that this might look messy sometimes while we fight the past. He smiles in that way of his that leaves me breathless and knocks his head against my chest. We'd developed our own shorthand of referring to these moments of nerves and anxiety, so many confessions late at night of how desperately we'd missed each other in the years we'd lost resulting in us agreeing that our relationship was going to be unique and that's okay. It's more intense, and that's okay. It involves us carving out time to just be together, even if it's doing nothing, and that's okay. It's me going to meals with his family to establish a healthy relationship with surrogate parents. It's calling each other at lunch breaks to talk about nothing just to hear each other. It's him encouraging me to stand up for myself and me making him accept praise for what he does well in the quiet moments when that bravery of his slips, something I never anticipated needing to do. From the inside, it's messy in how intertwined we've become, but on the outside we both know how it looks. Drew teases me about it, calls it the most extreme case of a honeymoon period he's ever seen, and maybe that is what it is, but it doesn't always feel like a honeymoon. Sometimes it feels like being terrified it will end again. And every time that feeling creeps up, we lock ourselves away and find ourselves in each other until the comfort of _us_ erases the fears. Because even when the gravity of this relationship settles and the knowledge that neither one of us has ever made a relationship work before sinks in, we know the only reason this is different is because _this is different._ It never takes long to remember, but sometimes we _do_ need reminding.

So it's not terribly surprising when he kisses me and strips my shirt off in a fluid motion, or when he unbuckles his belt and pulls me by mine towards the bed, when he crawls on top of me with the blanket around his shoulders because sometimes he likes the safety of being wrapped up in my stuff. I don't know how he is a series of so many contradictions, so hard and yet soft, so warm and chilling, lips fire but voice the salve. He doesn't take my shirt off him and I know it's because he feels the most comforted when he's in my clothes and because he knows how much it warms me to see him in them. It proves to be a problem when he also refuses to be on the bottom, presumably because he's attempting to comfort _me_ here which means he wants to be in charge; the fabric is too loose and far too in the way as he tries to get his hands around both of us. He laughs and tries to hold the hem of it between his teeth, but every time he moans it falls. One day I will tell him how much I love him like this, flushed and overwhelmed and in love above me, reminding me that I am his and he is mine. His shirt gets wrapped around my hand at his back as a compromise and he bites my shoulder hard when he's close, and it's perfect. His head is in my hand when he looks into my eyes, gasps, pulls us both under with his forehead pressed hard against mine.

It feels like hours pass by the time I break the silence. I ask him if he wants to take a shower, and he gives an emphatic no that I know means he just doesn't want to move. It makes me laugh for some reason, and his body shivers when my hands roam his back. "I'll wash your body."

"Too comfy."

"I'll wash your hair." He sighs and snuggles closer, weighing his options. I can't help but smirk at this quirk of his, how much he seems to love having his hair washed. It's something I've never done with anyone else but for some reason with him, it's incredibly intimate, maybe because I know how much it grounds him. He drags himself off my body and pulls me into the bathroom without a word. The only sound is the water as it warms. Timmy's forehead is pressed against my shoulder while I fiddle with the shower knobs and when I turn to look at him, he tilts his head up with hazy eyes and a slow smile. Sometimes I don't understand what I did to be this lucky, to have him look at me _like that_. His hands find mine and push them towards the shirt he still wears and I nod, grip the soft fabric, and tug it off his form. I watch him sneak a hand into the water's stream before hopping into the shower with his shoulders scrunched up, a hand reaching blindly for me to follow.

He's always more pliant like this and the more we talk about our pasts and who we were without each other, I think this is as close as I'll ever get to seeing him without me; he shies up under my gaze and his touch is more hesitant as he lets me lead him under the water and set the pace. It almost breaks my heart, but he's assured me more than once that I can't worry about this side of him. It just happens when he's overwhelmed, he says. He reverts back to patterns established in the past five or six years. I kiss him gently and smooth my hands over his shoulders because it makes him relax. He smiles that lazy smile of his when I work my own shampoo into his hair and slowly, I see him regain some of that confident charm of his through his hands at my sides. He sighs when I lead him towards the water and his eyes stay on mine while the water rushes over his hair. "More," he asks quietly, lips turning up. I laugh and pull him close enough to kiss until he's laughing too and pushing my hands back into his hair.

"Okay, okay," I smirk, kissing him once more for good measure as his shoulders slump and his body sways towards mine. If even possible, he turns mushier as I scrub my hands through his hair for a few minutes before reaching for his conditioner and working it through. I have to pry him away from me to rinse it out (and smirk at the mark he's left on my collarbone) before we can wash the rest of our bodies. 

He curls up on my chest afterwards and kisses the spots of skin he can reach. "You're worried about the wedding," he says quietly. It catches me off guard in a profound and unsettling way.

"I just had a rough day. I wasn't thinking about—" I shake my head.

"Armie." His skin is soft under my touch, but not even my fingers can deter him from the conversation. "We can talk about it later, but I think that's part of..." He sighs and lifts himself to kiss me before speaking up. "You've been a little anxious lately and I'm not trying to difficult I swear to god I'm just noticing that... _maybe_ it has something to do with your brother texting you details every other day..." It's a little frustrating when he does this, just throws something out there so out of left field. I try not to be bothered; I know he's saying it because he cares, and to be honest, I think he's probably right.

"Maybe," I admit, because it feels cruel to lie to him when he's sensed something I couldn't put into words. "I don't want to talk about it right now, if that's okay."

"It's okay," he nods. "But I'm here when you do. This isn't a problem that's going to go away and I think we both need to talk about it eventually..."

Frustration and love are a strange combination of emotions to be feeling, but I feel strangled by both. I wish he would drop it, but I also know he is the only person who I can talk to honestly about it. The fact that he has waited almost two weeks since we found out about Vik's wedding to bring it up says enough, that he knew I needed to process and would eventually need to talk it out. I don't understand how he knows me this well; it's both comforting and terrifying to be so known by him. So often, I feel like a teenager with him, overwhelmed as I learn about myself through his eyes. It doesn't occur to me that he might want to talk about it for his own reasons.

Saturday, he wakes up before me and starts coffee before slipping back under the covers. I can smell it as I drift awake, but his body is more important. He kisses me until I'm fully aware and smiles when I get up to bring us both coffee in bed. His leg is draped over one of mine as he sips and hums quietly. Mornings with him are my favorite-- I was never really a morning person, but he's bright eyed and snuggly when he's sleepy, and he always wakes up to be with me when I have work. The weekends are my favorite though, because we get to be lazy with each other.

We make love until the need to eat pulls us out of bed early afternoon. He's greedy today and even managed to get his fingers into me before we left the comfort of our sheets. (Late one night, he confessed that he'd never been with a man who wanted him to do anything but bottom and I'd nearly let him fuck me then and there at the sight of his hesitation to even tell me, as if it would change how I saw him, how I wanted him. Even after I told him I didn't care what we did or how we did it, as long as it was him I was doing it with, he seemed nervous. He was dragging it out, though I'm not sure why. He knows I'd let him, I'd let him do anything he wanted to me. As confident as he is though, in bed sometimes he still looks to me for reassurance. It's almost as if he's still that eighteen year old I would have thrown everything away for, the one who turned red when he was naked with me for the first time, the one who checked in with me because he wanted the reassurance for himself just as much. So it's been slow, good as fuck but slow. This morning I thought—but he just fingered me, slow and steady as if he's trying to get used to the idea of having that power over me. He never brings it up, but I know one day he will.)

And now, well now he seems to be trying to torture me some more because he's insisting on walking around the apartment ass naked while talking about dinner at his parents as if I can possibly focus on anything but his body. Turns out, doesn't matter how many times we take each other apart—the sight of him will still make me want him. I don't know how to make it more clear, but one day I will find a way to make him understand how much I mean it.

I sink into his laugh when I can't help but slap his ass when I pass him on the way to the bathroom, find my own laugh when he turns and jumps on my back to follow me in in retaliation. "I need to piss," I laugh, but he nips at the back of my neck and pushes his hands down to drop my boxers.

"Then piss."

"Jesus," I can't help but laugh, head shaking as I do as I'm told. Sometimes the assumed intimacy here startles me. He brushes his teeth after growing bored of leaving marks at my neck and smirks at me when I glance over, eyes hazy. "Don't even think about it, we need to get ready—how is this turning you on?"

"Your dick is in your hand, Armie," he huffs in false exasperation that makes flecks of toothpaste scatter on the sink. I finish up and kiss his shoulder as I reach for my own toothbrush. Getting ready to go out to his parents for dinner seems to take hours and hours, but it's always an ordeal to get the both of us to stop riling the other up when there are no other distractions around. We've missed brunch reservations, pushed meetings, moved dinner to drinks with friends—it's starting to be a problem, but now that he doesn't have the theater to go to on the weekends, it's like we can't stop.

He makes me change my shirt twice before telling me he thinks I look perfect, but I have a sneaking suspicion the purpose has less to do with me wearing the right thing and more to do with him trying to get me out of my clothes again. I have to go with something that has a collar and he laughs at my blush when he tells me as much. "You didn't have to leave marks," I complain, but he knows I'm not upset because he grins and traces his fingers over the splotches of red around my collarbone, along my shoulders. "You're feisty today." He kisses me gently just for that and brushes my hair back with his fingers.

"Is that a bad thing?" he asks, and even though I can tell he's trying to play it off as teasing, I can hear the trepidation there under it all. He eyes me steadily and bites at his lip.

"No," I kiss him. "Never."

Eventually, Timmy puts some damn clothes on and we make it out the door. He keeps my hand between both of his on the train, his eyes flickering around as we make our way to his parents. "They're really happy you're coming tonight," he says when we've emerged from the subway and turn down their street. He has dinner with them often, but I can't always make it; I had to cancel last time because of a work deal. "You know they think of you like a son." His voice is tender and heart shaped when he says it. I don't have to look at him to know he's got a faraway lovesick haze in his eyes. I've seen it before when he talks about how much they care about me. Sometimes I think it means more to him that I have some sort of parental support now than it does to me.

"You know how much that means to me," I tell him, because I know he wants a response and know there is only one he will accept; he doesn't like it when I doubt their love for me, or when I second guess their generosity with their hospitality. We haven't talked about it, but I can tell he's trying to help me see that family can mean something more to me now. I appreciate it, especially in light of Viktor's announcement and the prospect of taking him home to my own family.

Marc and Nicole are a whirlwind of affection when Timmy steps through the door, but it doesn't take long for them to extend the same treatment to me. It feels more normal now than in the beginning, a bit less jarring. It's how Timmy is, it makes sense his parents would be the same. They ask me about work and Timmy hooks his ankle around mine when they remember the manuscript I mentioned the last time I saw them, the genuine interest they have in what I'm saying taking me a little by surprise. It's one thing to know they care about me. It's another to see it so frequently.

Dinner with them is always overwhelming, and by the time we're leaving, Timmy is rubbing my back on the subway discreetly to ground me. "I love you," he whispers as we make our way home. Behind close doors, he presses me against his chest and pulls at my hair, the world slowing down around us. He didn't even bother turning the lights on, the only glow from the city through the windows and the night light in the kitchen. "They love you," he whispers. I nod against his neck and find comfort in his embrace. "No matter what happens, they're your family now too, Armie. They've got your back."

"I know," I manage after a moment of silence. I know what goes unsaid, we both do. That if my parents abandon me, I will still have his to share. That if this goes horribly wrong, I will have a net to catch me. It's more than I've ever had and I know Timmy knows how monumental that is, how big it is to even think about. I hardly can, it lives in the abstract of my mind where the grandness of their acceptance can be understood in theory. "I wish my parents would love you." The words slip out, my lip trembling at the honesty as I try to shake it off with a smile.

"Oh, Armie—" he makes a sort of broken noise and lifts himself up to pull me into a tight hug. I don't know how long we stand like that, just breathing the other in. Hours may pass. All I know is that by time we make our way to bed, the tears have dried on both of our faces and his body pulls mine closer under shared sheets where nothing can touch us.

I know he's right, we'll have to talk about this. I thought it was fine, that I didn't need to process what seeing my parents would do to me since I've been visiting over the past couple of years. But it's different because he will be there, because it won't just be me they're trying to pretend is perfect. The peace we've found at the holidays together can't coexist with the relationship I have now.

I don't know how to have that conversation with him, but he cards his fingers through my hair while I fall asleep and I know that no matter how that conversation goes, we will be okay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just some author's notes and a thank you

Well, hi yall. 

I've been trying to decide what I want to do about this story. I'd started writing it again just two months ago, which feels like a lifetime ago now. I can't continue though, but I didn't want to simply abandon it. 

This story, more than most, really changed the way I looked at my writing. This was the first thing I wrote where I developed essentially my own characters, worked through the plot, knew where I was going from very early on. It's the first (and only) story I've written that I've started adapting to an original work. And for that, for the encouragement and the kind words, for the emotional stories some of you have shared with me because of this story - I can never say thank you enough for being a part of that journey. 

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. 

I know everything is blowing up now, and I know I've made my stance in support of victims very clear on tumblr, but this story deserves what I can no longer give it - **closure**. I mean it when I say I'm adapting it - something I never would have had the balls to do without those of you who encouraged me over the years - but I have no idea how long that will take and honestly, I haven't gotten very far yet because I've been unable to separate A&T from the versions of these people I really want to write. In a way, this is a blessing; I will finally be able to separate them, because the Armie of this story is nothing like the Armie of reality. And really, he never was. That was the point. It's my goal to share the revised story in some capacity, but I don't know how or when that will be. I know this story means a lot to some of you, and regardless of the AH stuff, I want the purpose of this story to live on, and for any of you who found meaning in it to be able to enjoy it. 

Anyway, the real purpose of this is to say thank you, to let you know that this story will not be completed as an A&T fic, and to give you the resolution I've had planned since before Ode was even written, back when I thought this would be a two-part story, not what it evolved into. 

Everything You Wanted For Me was always a quote. It was always shouted during a conversation, the one singular moment Armie's entire story culminates in, the thing he proudly, if not emotionally, declares to his parents when everything bubbles over during his return to the lodge.

_"I already have it! I already have everything you wanted for me."_

I could say so much about how this story was going to go. I had it all planned for well over a year. I knew the scenes, knew the conversations, saw the resolution like a vision in front of me. It ended in a proposal, in my mind. It was always a proposal. 

I'm sorry I can't give you this story's resolution, but I do hope you all remember it fondly as I hope to. 

I did a lot of research on novels when I started to realize how big this story was going to be, and found that an 8-point arc was what I wanted to work with specifically for how well it works with multi-part stories. I'd never tried that before, so I had to write it out to really understand where I was going. I have about 10 pages of handwritten notes on the plot, but that seems like a lot to upload. I've teased this picture in a few platforms over the years, but I wanted to share it now to give you an idea of how I'd always imagined this going. Thanks again. 

✌


End file.
